He had, had enough, he had been insulted, belittled, and emasculated by this witch. It was a reflex fueled by machismo, driven by adrenaline and pride. As his arm extended some part of him, or perhaps another patron in the bar screamed out for him to stop, that he knew it was foolish. Yet the motion carried, he grabbed her by the upper arm just below her armpit. It was in this moment, in the span between seconds as time virtually froze that he realized his mistake. Her arm was not like that of any woman's he had ever held, or a man's for that matter. It was grabbing a statue or a powerful serpent, her arm positively pulsed with power like a living dynamo of raw energy. In his next moment of conscious though her other hand was wrapped around his throat. As he looked down by her dark red hair, bountiful bosom, and penetrating blue eyes he fell in love. Perhaps it was her dark tight clothing against her pale powerful flesh combined with her overbearing strength, but something inside of him changed, wanted to be restrained, to be choked, pushed, shoved, to have her boot upon his throat. The look in her face changed as though she could hear his thoughts, the last thing he saw before passing out was her dropping him and looking up at her tight black boots hugging her legs like shadows made of skin, and the last thing he felt was her boot crushing into his back as she laughed over him.

When he awoke she was gone and he would spend many years of his life looking for or another like her, trying to recreate the sensation; single handedly inventing a new underground sexual fetish.